


WIP Amnesty: If I'm Louder (Would You See Me)

by aimmyarrowshigh



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Deaf Character, Established Relationship, Fic amnesty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2014-05-20
Packaged: 2018-01-25 20:50:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1661984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon-timeline AU where everything is the same except that Harry was born Deaf.  This is a WIP amnesty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	WIP Amnesty: If I'm Louder (Would You See Me)

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic in February 2012 on the now-defunct kinkmeme. I have been intending to finish it for over two years, but I think I'm just stuck. Anyway, canon-timeline AU where everything is the same except that Harry was born Deaf. This is a fic amnesty, so it is not complete and probably will not be completed beyond what's here. If you want to adopt this story and write the unfinished parts, then message me on Tumblr? If not, then this is what there is.
> 
> I'm really sorry.

"Harry, what do you think _ovals’ah tintin farmer curls_?"

Harry Styles blinks and swallows, but smiles easily enough. "Slower, please," he asks politely. "I'm sorry; I didn't catch that."

This is a new interviewer -- someone from America, someone who can't understand how a deaf boy could be a teen heartthrob, because people are seen more black-and-white in the United States and to her, Harry Styles is a deaf boy -- and she blushes, flustered and ruffling her papers. She over-enunciates when she asks again like that will make him hear. "What do you think of all the attention from girls?"

His speaking voice is soft, contemplative, and slow. He always sounds a bit tired, and his bandmates stare at his face intently when he's speaking. Every once in a while, an interviewer will find this rude or unnerving; One Direction pay rapt attention to Harry, and he them, and very little to anything, or anyone, else around them.

It's hard to tell that it's because Harry Styles can't hear. They watch him to show that they're listening, and he watches them to listen.

Harry grins and a giggle escapes him. He touches his throat absently to feel its tickling aftershocks. He loves laughter. "It's very strange," he says. "But I think it's ace."

He settles back a bit after that, though, and curls into Louis' side. Louis is more expressive than Zayn, but less expressive than Niall, and that makes him the perfect conduit to the conversation without having to actually watch anyone: he laughs and smiles when he feels Louis' laugh rumbling around beneath his ribs, and when Louis leans forward to speak, Harry leans with him and trains his eyes on Louis' mouth. He doesn't even need to be looking head-on at Louis anymore to be able to read him.

It's that familiarity that makes resting on Louis when Harry is sleepy just slightly dangerous, though, and he's nearly dozing off when Louis squeezes his ribs twice to get his attention. Harry blinks and looks up and Louis smiles down at him.

_We're going to sing now. More Than This._

Harry nods and sits up to switch places. He always sits between Zayn and Liam when they sing a cappella and there's no bass beating beneath the floor to thrum up into Harry's ribs keeping time. 

He settles back down between them and puts one hand on Liam's back and the other pressed to Zayn's chest, just above his sternum. Liam sings low and full, like an opera singer deep in his diaphragm. His voice rolls in circles inside him like a wheel, turning and growing and smooth.

Zayn, though, sings from his heart. Sometimes Harry thinks it's literal, because it feels as though Zayn's voice and his heartbeat get tangled up and push at each other like hammers, and they've had to stop rehearsals before because Zayn gets to laughing at how Harry's fingers will tickle as he follows the feeling of Zayn's trills and runs up and down his chest and neck and mouth. 

Harry knows that his own voice comes out of his throat. It feels a bit rough sometimes, like when he's not drunk enough water, and Louis told him that it sounds "scratchy" then. He knows his voice is the deepest of any of the boys and that Niall is the highest. He just tries to keep even with Liam and lets Zayn set the pacing. A cappella is hardest. He doesn't really like it. It's better when Niall has his guitar, at least.

After they've sung, Harry rests his head on Zayn's shoulder and feels the other boy's lips moving on his ear. Zayn does that sometimes -- Harry can feel the warm breath of it and the volume pop into his ear and the softness of Zayn's lips at the shell, but there's nothing to trip-hammer inside to make sound. There are only two pops this time, though, so Harry knows he's whispered _good job._

More than almost anything in the world, though, Harry loves performing -- the way they perform now, on a full stage of thrumming instruments and a bass that rocks all the way up through his bones until it feels like it's rearranging the beat of his _heart_ and a whole crowd out in the audience singing their words back to them, a sea of lips singing a single row of words that spell exactly what they want to say ( _I love you, Harry! I love you, Zayn! That's what makes you beautiful!_ )

Backstage before the show, too, when all of the boys and crew have their earplugs in, Harry has a leg up. He's sort of smug about it.

Niall comes up and his pale fingers sign fluidly. _You ready, Hazza?_

Harry had been shocked when this blond ball of energy bounced over to him at bootcamp and started signing so quickly that it took Harry a moment to adjust and catch up –

_\-- Niall and I'm sixteen and I'm from Mullingar; this is the first year I auditioned, how about you? I saw you singing in the hallway, you're really good, but I heard Dermot saying you're deaf? I learned to sign in school but I've never gotten to practice; shit, am I being rude?_

Harry had grinned and blinked in surprise. _No, you're not rude. You sign really well. I'm Harry. I'm sixteen, too._

Niall grinned back. _How'd you go deaf?_ He paused, and his face flushed up red. _Sorry._

 _It's okay_ , Harry had signed back. He clapped Niall on the shoulder and nodded encouragingly, then spoke. "I was born Deaf."

"Oh, can you read lips?" Niall had asked, and when Harry nodded he exhaled and said, "Well, I guess that's good for you. I was excited to practice my signing, though."

"You can if you want," Harry offered. "But you don't have to."

"Which is easier?" Niall asked. When Harry just shrugged, Niall switched back to signing. _I think I'll have a go at this then. No offense, but I think my only chance of getting on telly is if they film me signing with you. Do you want to get lunch? I'm dead starving._

So Harry had gone off to lunch with Niall and they did end up with their own segment of the Xtra Factor, much to Niall's delight. At the end of bootcamp, when both crying boys were already sitting on the stairs outside, waiting to go back to their humdrum lives, they were put in a group together -- much to _Harry's_ delight.

Niall sings from his belly, which makes sense. He seems to do everything belly-deep; singing and loving and living. And eating. He always laughs when Harry comes up and flattens one hand over Niall's gut to feel the muscular punches of the notes coming out and another to Niall's lips to follow the words. 

When they're on stage, though, Harry doesn't need to touch the other boys singing to feel them. On stage, with the beat of the bass and the vibrato of the guitars and the heat of the lights and the insistent pushing press of the crowd singing back at them thousand-fold, Harry thinks, maybe, he can hear them all anyway. And even though that isn't true, feeling them is _better_.

And he can feel them onstage. As a unit, yes, as One Direction, but also as individuals. 

Especially Louis. Louis, onstage, is a spark and an ember and a fireball all in one, a continuous cycle of light that draws Harry's eye and burns until he has to blink and look away or get scorched. Harry can feel Louis smoldering at him from across the stage as clearly as a squeeze to his ribs or a ruffle of his hair or a tug on his hand or -- a call in the silence.

 _You alright?_ Louis mouths to Harry. They both know full well that at this point, the fans seem to be able to read their lips even better than they can. They'd made the mistake before of assuming no one could decipher their whispers -- "Louis, can I give you a blowjob?" "I'd love for you to, just wait" -- so they tried to be, generally, more careful.

But not all the time.

 _I want to hear you_ , Harry mouths back.

Harry had met Louis for the first time in the bathroom, of all places, at bootcamp. All of the 'Boys' had just finished a massive sing-along in the stairwell and Harry stood right at the heart of it, both of his hands and his whole front pressed up against the twanging metal railing as he sang "Man in the Mirror" with an ear-to-ear grin splitting his face. With two-hundred voices reverberating around the tiny walls and running, shivering, up the metal of the railing and the echoing stairs, it felt like the song had been pushing itself through every one of Harry's cells.

He had noticed, but not noted, the boy with the absurd cardigan and hipster keffiyeh scarf, arms crossed like he was cool, leaning against the opposite wall.

So Harry was properly shocked when that boy shook his shoulder just as he'd begun unzipping at the urinals.

He wheeled around, zipper half-open.

"Why didn't you stop? I've been following you for fifteen minutes!"

Harry knew it was an exaggeration; he'd only been walking for maybe five.

He felt badly anyway and shrugged apologetically. "I didn't know you were there." He gestured vaguely to his ears. "I'm Deaf."

The boy looked surprised. " _You're_ the kid? But you sing really well. You're like, really well good."

Harry grinned. "Yeah, that's me."

"How'd you learn to sing then?" The boy asked. "Have you ever heard yourself?"

"No. But I learnt as a kid to help me speak better," Harry said, already quite used to telling the story and unashamed. "And to read lips. I can lip-synch to S Club _really_ well."

The boy laughed delightedly and Harry bit his lip as he grinned back.

"I'm Louis," Louis had said then, sticking out his hand.

"Hello, Louis. I'm Harry," Harry answered, and shook. Louis' hand was a bit dwarfed in Harry's.

"Hey, listen," Louis said without thinking, "Will you -- this sounds weird -- will you sign an autograph for me? Only with a story and a voice like you've got, you're a lock, and I want to say that I met you when."

Harry nodded, flushed and laughing, fingertips crawling across his throat. Louis handed him a pen and the receipt for a Galaxy bar and coffee. On a whim, Harry added his BBM below the bog-standard 'Harry Styles' he scrawled across the paper.

"Thanks," Louis said, and clapped Harry on the shoulder before turning to go.

"Wait," Harry had called. "Wait, Louis -- can I -- can I hear you sing?"

Louis cocked his head. "How?"

"Come here," Harry said. He showed Louis his hands. "I won't hurt you."

Louis had flushed a bit red then and held his arms out like he was preparing for an airport strip search. Harry laughed and flattened one hand over Louis' chest, just at the hollow place above his diaphragm, and murmured _don't be nervous_ as his other hand curled lightly over Louis' throat. 

Harry could feel the jackrabbit pace of the other boy's pulse and swallowed.

"Sing 'Man in the Mirror,'" he whispered. "Get some practice in."

So Louis sang. The hand Harry held over Louis' neck took in the sound in a buzz from up high, like Louis' nerves were trying to swallow his own voice up, but the other hand -- the hand that started on Louis' chest -- trailed over Louis' body, following up and around as Harry tried to find the source of Louis' music.

It wasn't in his chest or his back or his belly; it wasn't up high in his heart.

Louis' voice eluded Harry, and he knew he was staring.

When Louis finished singing, he laughed breathlessly and Harry's fingers tightened in Louis' shirt.

"Did I sound good?"

Harry frowned. "I think so. I can't find your voice."

"Well, that's worrisome," Louis bantered, "Seeing as it's a singing competition." He paused and blushed again. "The -- sorry -- the way you're looking at my lips is like, it keeps making me think you want to kiss me."

Harry smiled with his own lips pressed together and smoothed his hand over Louis' chest again, in the same flat, hollow place ghosted with heartbeat. "That's superfluous."

Two hours later, they had discovered that Harry could feel Louis' voice best when Louis was singing it right into Harry, tucking the music inside him lip-to-lip.

After the show ends and the boys disentangle themselves from their perpetual post-concert sweaty knot of hugs and pinches and hysterical laughter and endorphins enough to blow off the roof, Louis has a hard time finding Harry. He traipses around through all of the dressing rooms, surprising Niall with a fan and Zayn with their opening act, but doesn’t find Harry. He even lets Liam take him on a detour around to thank all of the stage techs. Louis tries texting Harry twice, but either his phone died or he’s changing clothes and the vibrating phone is in trousers that are not currently on his body.

Louis is no stranger, at this point, to getting creative in his methods of tracking Harry down. He can’t very well call for him, though he sometimes forgets this. Texting _usually_ works well enough – although really, the two boys are together so often that usually turning slightly and poking Harry in the thigh works even better – but at home, at least, there are other applicable options. 

The fans _still_ gush and giggle over the time that Louis had run outside in his pyjamas to get something out of his Porsche and locked himself out. Harry had been napping and missed the flashing lights that accompanied their door’s buzzer, so Louis ended up tweeting a plea for a massive Twitter spam asking Harry to let him inside – Harry’s phone buzzed enough with the thousands of notifications that its little motor had died in what Harry still insists was an _actual_ explosion.

But Louis had got back inside, and that’s what he thought counted.

But the problem, backstage, is that Louis doesn’t know where Harry _is_ , so he can’t cleverly drop in through the window or flash the lights or sneak up behind Harry and smack his arse.

 _If I have to meet one more lighting guy with L then I am going to see if they live up to the name Best Boy_ , Louis tries texting a final time. _ged ere!!_

His phone buzzes in his pocket a moment later. _Craft Services room on skype. It’s my mum so be wearing something if you come in._

Louis grins and claps Liam on the shoulder. “I’m off to find young Harold. How long until the van gets here?”

Liam checks his own phone. “Only just ten minutes. _And I’m tired, Louis_ ; you can wait another twenty before you do unspeakable things with him.”

“They’re all perfectly well speakable; you just embarrass easily.” Louis gives Liam a little wrinkle-nosed, smirking grin and heads off to Craft Services. “Our little Liam.”

It took Liam longer to warm to Harry, if only because Liam knew how much it -- _sucked_ , was the only word for it, when people treated you differently because they thought you had a disability, and he wanted to make sure that he never did that to Harry, but thinking that in the first place meant that he thought Harry had a disability, and it spun Liam into a sort of sneaky self-doubt spiral that plagued him horribly for the first two weeks they knew each other.

And then Harry woke early to find Liam in the kitchen making tea. Liam had his back turned to the door, so Harry sneaked up behind him and jumped on his back, making him flail into the refrigerator door in surprise.

Once Harry had finished laughing, he gave Liam a smile. “Was that so terrible?”

Liam pressed his hand to his chest and breathed. “No? But please don’t startle me like that.”

“Well,” Harry had said meaningfully, and held out a hand for Liam to help him up from where he’d fallen off Liam’s back during the flailing, “Same to you. As long as you’re not sneaking up on me, you’re doing everything fine. Don’t worry so much on account of me. That’s the only thing I don’t like.”

Liam nodded hesitantly. “What – if I do, you know, sneak up on you by accident?”

Harry shrugged and bent into the refrigerator to get out the orange juice. Liam winced – Harry’s constant nudity was harder to get used to than his Deafness, that was certain. “Then I’ll get over it, just like you are now. Do you want an orange juice?”

“Yes, please,” Liam said.

Harry turned back around and raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Liam colored to the roots of his hair when he realized his error.

“Yes, please,” he mumbled.

Harry grinned cheekily and patted Liam’s jaw. “See? It’s all that simple, little Liam.”

“I’m older than you are.”

“Little Liam,” Harry insisted, thrusting his limp dick so it waggled in Liam’s direction suggestively. Liam made a horrible face, and Harry laughed delightedly as he poured their juice. He wrapped a blanket around his waist and the two of them sat outside on the bungalow’s porch to watch the sunrise. Eventually, Liam had begun to hum their song for Judges’ Houses. Harry looked over and cocked his head, then pressed one hand gently to the seat of Liam’s chest, just below his heart. After a minute, he started humming, too, and then they were singing together, harmonizing, Harry using the steady sureness of Liam’s perfect pitch to guide him through the song.

Niall had padded outside with a sloppy bowl of cornflakes and sat down on Harry’s other side to join in, and Louis dropped down from the porch awning like a real-life peter pan to wrap himself around Harry’s back and sing into his hair. Zayn had been the last to wake up and come outside, too, and he sang around the cigarette dangling from his lips waiting to be lighted.

When they were finished, Harry had beamed and said, “We’re going to be huge. I can tell.”

And of course, now they are: it’s why Louis is wandering backstage at the O2, trying to remember where the greenroom is so he can collect Harry and bring him home for excellent post-show sex.

He opens the door quietly even though there’s no need and plucks a handful of ketchup-flavored crisps from their bowl on the long buffet table as he meanders over behind Harry. The room is completely silent; Harry and his mother are signing with flying fingers through the laptop screen. Anne must alert Harry that Louis’ arrived, because Harry turns over his shoulder and gives him a distracted grin.

Louis kisses the side of Harry’s head and settles down beside him with his crisps. Harry turns back to the computer and he keeps signing with a frown on his face, brow wrinkled. Louis’ never got the hang of signing. He can do his name, and Harry’s, and a few rather rude statements that probably aren’t official sign language, but he pretty much just talks to Harry via lip-reading. Harry asserts that he likes it; it makes him feel more independent, he says, and Louis doesn’t mind having to have all of his conversations with Harry face-to-face. If anything, it’s made him realize how impersonal most of his other talks are – people look at their laps or check their phones under the table or stare into space. But Harry hangs on Louis’ every word, and Louis is only too happy to return the favor.

He thinks Harry is a bit of a miracle, if he’s honest. He’ll probably never tell him that, though. It’s a bit too Jack and Vera.

Finally, Anne heaves a huge sigh on the screen and the signing ends. “Alright, sweetheart,” she says. “I’ll let you go with Louis and the boys. I love you. Take care of yourself, too, Louis.”

“Yes, mum,” Harry and Louis say at the same time, and Louis slips his arm around Harry’s waist.

Harry logs off Skype and pounces on Louis without any further ado, soft lips slotting with Louis’ eagerly.

He pulls back after a moment and stares at Louis’ mouth. “You taste like ketchup.”

Louis stifles a smile. “Sorry. I just had some crisps.”

Harry shakes his head and nuzzles up against Louis’ nose. “Warn a guy,” he grumbles cheerfully. He slips his tongue into the next kiss anyway. He can feel Louis’ mouth buzz softly with a hum against his own, and Harry smiles into the kiss before gently resting his fingers over Louis’ throat, just barely touching. His thumb strokes unconsciously, and Louis pulls back with a giggle through his nose.

He catches Harry’s fingers and kisses the knuckles. “That tickles, babe.”

Harry shrugs and his hair flops into his eyes. “Don’t much care.” He slides his free hand over Louis’ thigh, tapping his fingertips against the inseam. “Just like my hands on you.”

“Mmm, that’s good,” Louis agrees. He leans in to kiss Harry again before pulling back to say, “Liam wants to leave straight off. We’ll have to wait to get home.”

“Can we shower?” Harry asks. “Also, I’m hungry as you’ve eaten all the crisps.”

Louis smiles, kisses Harry, and pulls back again so Harry can see his mouth. “Tell you what: you can have some tea and toast while I run a bath, and we can have a soak instead. My legs are aching a bit.”

“I told you those trousers are too tight for cartwheels,” Harry jibes. He grins cheekily. “But you never mind me.”

Louis dumps Harry off his lap and stands up, brushing off the thighs of his post-show thermals. Harry laughs and pushes himself back up to his feet before slipping one hand into Louis’ pocket just to keep hold of him and they start off through the labyrinthine corridors to find the boys, Paul, and the van. Harry rests his head against Louis’ shoulder, yawning deeply, and Louis hums so quietly under his breath that Harry can’t even feel it from his perch.

Back at the van, Louis clambers inside and takes a seat in the middle row, next to Zayn. Liam and Niall are already in the back, Niall sprawled over most of the seat while Liam sits primly by the window while Niall wriggles his toes on Liam’s knee. Paul catches Harry’s shoulder before he can follow and signs, slowly but with carefully-learned deftness, _you okay_?

Harry nods and signs back – it’s the least he can do after Paul went to all the trouble of taking courses just on account of him – that he’s great, thanks. In the van, Zayn falls asleep as usual and Harry, Louis, and Liam spend the rest of the way back to their complex drawing evil-style facial hair on Zayn’s chin and upper lip.

As soon as Louis unlocks the door to their flat, Harry shoulders him inside and pushes him up against the doorframe, lips slotted with Louis’ and one thigh pressed up between Louis’ legs to tease. Louis’ fingers dig into Harry’s hips when Harry drags his mouth down to Louis’ neck and kisses a soft, sucking line down over Louis’ Adam’s apple, feeling the rich buzz as Louis moans and arches into it.

Louis squeezes Harry’s hip twice and Harry looks up. His eyes are heavy-lidded like he’s drugged on Louis. 

“You go eat,” Louis reminds him. He leans in to kiss Harry’s nose and pulls back again to say, “And I’ll go run a bath.”

Harry pouts a little – he slides one hand down into the front of Louis’ pants for a quick, warm feel and Louis’ abs jump in surprise – before he nods and toes out of his shoes to head to the kitchen. Once bread is in the toaster, he switches on their electric kettle – it glows bright blue when the water is boiling instead of the traditional whistling, so he can tell when his water is done – and once the tea is poured, the toast will have come up. The timing works out well. Harry sits on the countertop, swinging his feet as he eats his buttered toast and drinks his tea. He lets his heels thud against the wood of the cabinetry and feels the reverberations of the thumping echo up into his ankles. 

The lights flash, and Harry looks up from his toast, startled.

Louis stands in the kitchen door, completely naked, with his arms wrapped around his chest because it’s sort of cold in their corridors. His eyebrows wrinkle unhappily as he whines, “You’ve been ages, Harry. The water’s going to get cold.”

Eyes twinkling, dishes settling into the sink to be dealt with in the morning (or next week), Harry laughs and rubs his hands briskly over Louis’ sides. “Warm you up?”

“Just come along,” Louis grumbles, but his eyes are crinkled at the corners and that only happens when he’s truly happy. Harry gloms onto Louis’ back like a limpet and generally hinders their progress down the hall by refusing to let go of Louis, their feet tangling together as he drops kisses over the crest of Louis’ neck.

The water is still hot enough to steam when Harry eases himself into the tub, and it sploshes over the edges when Louis settles himself in over Harry’s thighs, facing him so Harry can read his lips. Harry smiles at him, content and warm, and his eyes close as he hums when Louis combs wet fingers through Harry’s hair to scratch behind his ears.

When Harry opens his eyes again, Louis is smiling back at him with his own wet hair. He tips his chin up towards Harry and scoots closer to him, sending more water crashing over the edges of the tub like a wave. “Kiss?”

Harry shakes his head as he hitches Louis up closer. “You’re going to flood the place.”

“Call me Cthulu,” Louis murmurs before nipping up close to touch his lips to the bow of Harry’s mouth. 

Harry makes a soft, pleased noise and lets his hands run over Louis’ shoulders and up to the back of his neck to hold Louis closer and deepen the kiss. Louis always likes how Harry gives him sounds of appreciation for even the smallest things: little kisses, buttered toast, hand massages while they’re watching television with the CCTV on. 

It took Louis a while to be able to let go and do the same. He and Harry fell into each other so scarily quickly after those first furtive kisses at bootcamp that there was hardly time for Louis to even think about things until he was in the thick of it, cuddled up with Harry in their skinny bunk at the X-Factor House, Harry lying in the cradle of Louis’ hips so they could rut against each other through their pants. Harry had groaned, loud and unashamed, with his lips barely ghosting over Louis’ to muffle them, and Louis had frozen because _people might hear_.

And, Louis thought then, that Harry didn’t know. That it wouldn’t occur to him.

So Louis had frozen, and pushed at Harry’s shoulder so he would stop moving, look, and let Louis talk. It wasn’t – Louis had pretty much the same amount of experience with sex as Harry, even with other boys. It wasn’t like Louis didn’t want people to know he was off with Harry, because the House was about as private as a cage in the zoo; everyone knew from the day they’d moved in. But it was one thing for people to know that he liked doing things with boys, specifically Harry, and another for them to know that he was doing them _right then_ , like _at that moment_ he and Harry were rolling around in bed pushing against each other in a race to get off. 

Louis had grown up in a house with a very invested mother and a gaggle of younger sisters. The idea of people knowing what he was up to in a sexual capacity seemed superfluous and obscene and, honestly, creepy.

“What’s wrong?” Harry had asked, his eyes round and shiny. His lips were shiny, too, and even through his embarrassment Louis was proud that _he_ had kissed them that way. “You’re really quiet.”

Louis blinked. “How – well, how’d’you know that?”

“Don’t feel your voice.” Harry shrugged like it was nothing. “I don’t – d’you not like it? The, like, basically, kissing and stuff?”

“No,” Louis assured him, “I like it. I like it a lot. It’s just – you’re really loud.”

Harry had blushed and looked down at Louis neck for a few moments before gathering himself to answer. Louis was struck, suddenly, at how intimate it was to have to look into each other’s eyes, look at each other’s faces, to talk about these things. He couldn’t hide his face away in Harry’s neck even if he wanted to. 

“I just like it a lot, too,” Harry mumbled. “I wanted you to know.” He blinked slowly. “Can’t tell if – I’m doing it right. When I can’t find your voice.”

Louis had to lean up and kiss the corner of Harry’s mouth. “You’re doing it right.”

“Then what’s wrong?”

“It’s just that people can _hear_ ,” Louis had whispered. “Through the walls. They’ll know what we’re doing.”

Harry had paused then, considering this, before his face broke into a grin and he lowered himself down over Louis again, the fat heads of their still-hard teenage cocks catching just right through the cotton of their pants. “They can deal with it. We’re in love. And you’re really fit.”

Even after the supernova orgasm that afternoon had resulted in, it took Louis a while to get accustomed to making noise during sex – but he tried, for Harry, because he knew from past experience how daunting it was when a partner wasn’t responsive enough and he’d had to spend the whole encounter wondering what he was doing so horribly. If Harry needed to be able to get his hands and his lips and his tongue on Louis and feel, _taste_ the sounds welling beneath his skin, Louis would try to give that to him.

Now, as Harry works his hands through Louis’ hair, scratching lightly at his scalp, Louis sings a low, appreciative note in the back of his nose. A soft puff of warm breath nudges Harry’s lip. 

Louis shifts closer to Harry and lets his hands slide over Harry’s skin, drifting beneath the water to thumb circles around Harry’s navel and drift lower. Harry murmurs against Louis’ mouth, but when Louis finds that Harry is still only soft and lying along the crease of his thigh, he pulls back.

“Y’alright?” Louis asks, searching Harry’s face. 

Harry gives him a little smile; his cheeks are pink and a little embarrassed, but his brow is a little creased. “I’m alright, yeah.”

Louis leans forward and kisses Harry’s shoulder before lifting his face to speak. “Were you arguing with your mum?”

“I don’t want to talk about my mum while we’re in the bath.” Harry wrinkles his nose playfully, but Louis can tell that he’s discovered the problem. Louis raises an eyebrow, and Harry sighs, his shoulders slumping. “It’s nothing important.”

Louis gives Harry another scratch behind the ear and smooths his wet hair flat. “Alright. You can tell me about it, if you want.”

“I know,” Harry assures him. “I’d rather not just now, if it’s the same.” He runs his own hands down over Louis’ chest and belly. “I can take care of you anyway?”

“If you’re not up for it,” Louis dismisses, shaking his head. He leans in and gives Harry’s nose a little nuzzle. “Just relax, yeah? C’mon, I’ll wash your hair.”

Harry smiles. His hands settle at Louis’ hips as he murmurs, “Oh, go on, then,” and Louis nips a kiss to the end of Harry’s nose before pouring handfuls of warm water over Harry’s head again to wet his hair through. Harry rewards Louis with low, almost purring groans as Louis massages Harry’s scalp and drizzles little cheering kisses over Harry’s cheekbones and the soft, tired hollows below his eyes. Louis uses his fingertips to rub out the tight kinks in Harry’s neck – perpetual from Harry’s sloping shoulders and bad posture – and Harry moans appreciatively, letting his forehead droop to rest on Louis’ shoulder. Slowly, as Louis rubs his thumbs gently over the shells of Harry’s ears, Harry gets hard, resting heavy against Louis’ belly. 

Harry sucks a kiss just beneath Louis’ collarbone, sucking a dark bruise where it won’t show. He wishes he were still allowed to give Louis lovebites properly on his neck, but since he isn’t, leaving puzzles of them beneath Louis’ clothes where only he could find them is good enough. He pushes his hips up against Louis’ and whimpers a soft invitation as he wraps his fingers around both of their cocks.

Louis tips Harry’s face up with the crook of one finger so Harry can see his mouth. Harry looks beautiful and serene with his pupils huge and his face open, and Louis has to lick his lip to keep from kissing Harry instead of speaking. “Not in the bath. I don’t fancy sitting in a pool of spunk.”

Harry pouts. “But then we can shower together to wash up.”

“We’re not bathing just so we can shower!” Louis laughs. “Get up, you lazy, horny lump.”

Harry narrows his eyes at Louis and leans forward to nip at Louis’ nose. “I can’t until your big arse gets off me. Or gets me off. I’m leaning towards the latter.”

Louis just shakes his head and gets out of the bath, shivering in the cold air of their flat and quickly toweling off. Harry rinses out his curls one more time before draining the tub, and shakes his hair out like a Saint Bernard once he’s out of the water, splattering Louis and the walls and mirror. 

Pulling a face, Louis drops his towel over Harry’s head. 

Harry scrubs his hair and then pops out from beneath the towel, his eyes huge and adoring. His hair is a halo of fluff around his face, and he looks suddenly so much like he did almost a year and a half ago that Louis is struck by just how long they’ve made this work.

He hauls Harry in close, using the towel as reins, and pulls his face down for a kiss. He lets his hands slip onto Harry’s back, broader and more muscular than it used to be, and he uses one fingertip to draw a heart on Harry’s skin. Harry sighs happily and runs his hands over Louis’ chest before teasingly toying with the knot of Louis’ towel.

When Louis pulls back, he gives Harry’s arse a light smack and says, “You go on to bed. Let me do the last of the washing up in peace.”

The tips of Harry’s ears go pink, like they always, always still do, without fail, but he gives Louis’ lips a last quick kiss before he skitters off to their bedroom. He sings all the way down the hall, thumping his fingers against the wall to keep rhythm. Louis smiles and sets to the last of his more – intimate washing up. 

Harry is already lying in bed when Louis gets their their room, towel abandoned on the bathroom floor. The lights are dim; Harry likes the way fairy lights looked strung around the ceiling because, as Louis always calls him when he turned them on, he is becoming an insufferable hipster, and because it’s a concession to both of their tastes: Louis only liked to have sex with the lights off, but Harry wanted them on so he could see Louis, watch him fall apart. With only the lamp and the fairy lights, Harry could watch the shadows and curves of Louis’ body and the shine of his skin when it covered over with sweat, but Louis didn’t have to feel like he was on display.

They had both fooled around with boys before each other – blowjobs at parties; handies in tents at music festivals or camp – but they’d only each had full-on sex with girls. Their first time was disastrous and completely unromantic (and unsexy) on the X Factor Tour, but since then, they’d learned to play each other’s bodies like strings and, more importantly, how to communicate better what they each needed. 

Louis was intensely private about sex, when it mattered. Not that he wouldn’t make a joke at _anyone_ ’s expense if they deserved it, including himself, about anything and everything down to to the willies and bums of the matter, but… when it mattered, when it was Harry, he left the big persona on the floor with the rest of his clothes. He liked dark, and he was used to silence, and he never wanted sex to be a big production. It was for him and Harry; he didn’t need much more than a few fingers and a bed.

Harry, on the other hand, fucked as exuberantly as he jumped around onstage. He liked “sweep everything off the desk” sex, up against the windows sex, look at what I bought in that naughty shop on Brewer Street sex. He wanted the lights on and their voices rumbling in earthquake vibrations through all of their limbs – he wanted the bedframe to rattle and leave dents in the wall.

It took them a while to reconcile their differences… but the experimenting was enjoyable enough on its own. They both liked to have the other inside them, although it was Louis their very first time, and most often now. He’s smaller now than Harry, and slighter, and they both like the way Harry’s long limbs and obscene torso can wrap around Louis now that he is so much taller. 

Louis closes the door behind him even though they live alone. It’s one of his silly idiosyncrasies that makes Harry smile the most, so in love with him. 

Louis’ skin is warm as he slides into bed, one leg straddled over Harry’s waist so that when he bends down, their bellies brush as they kiss. Talking during sex is difficult, even though Harry likes feeling the noise; he can’t read Louis’ lips so easily in dim light at strange angles and they know each other well enough, now, that Louis trusts Harry knows what he means with the way that he’s moving and breathing. Harry hums as his hands run up the outsides of Louis’ thighs, soft skin riddled with small scars from old football injuries and fence-climbing and pranks gone awry. 

Gifting Harry with a soft sigh, Louis rocks up on Harry’s hips so that Harry’s big hands can slip beneath Louis, touching appreciatively. In the dim light, the shadows that fall over Louis’ cheekbones when his eyelashes flutter as the tip of Harry’s finger pets over the cleft of Louis’ ass, stroking until Louis relaxes. 

The tension in Louis’ shoulders melts as he smiles down at Harry before reaching over to the bedside table to snag the bottle of lube they keep there, brazenly displayed beside the tissues. Harry hums and tilts his face to catch Louis’ lips in a clinging kiss as Louis squeezes a nickel of lube onto Harry’s hand beneath him. Harry sucks a chilly breath through his teeth and bites lightly at the plush of Louis’ lip in warning before pressing a fingertip inside.

Louis makes sure to nuzzle into the long, soft stretch of Harry’s neck and murmur into his skin so Harry can feel it. When it raises goosebumps all up and down Harry’s arms, Louis sucks just enough to make the skin pull pink, but not enough to bruise for tomorrow.

Harry’s mouth murmurs against the side of Louis’ face – “Alley-oop!” – and then Louis is flat on his back on the mattress so Harry can get a better angle with the crook of his fingers. His eyes sparkle down at Louis like this is something new and profound, the blown-wide black of his pupils catching the specks and sparkles of the fairy lights and the blue glow from the window. 

“Love you,” Louis says, taking the opportunity of facing each other.

Harry grins. “Love you, too.”

He slides a second fingertip in alongside the first and bends to kiss the knobble of Louis’ knee, tucked up alongside his ribs. 

 

**[STUFF. Pretty much just smut.]**

 

 

Louis nudges his chin against Harry’s shoulder until Harry turns his head, smiling sleepily at Louis.

“What were you and your mum arguing about?” 

There’s a rustle as Harry rolls onto his side, better to face each other to talk, and brings Louis closer again with an arm around his waist. “I don’t know if you’d understand, but – Syco’s been pestering her to get me to agree to an implant, and I don’t want one.”

“What is that?” Louis asks, running his hands along Harry’s skin. “Are you alright?”

“I am alright,” Harry says fiercely. “That’s why I don’t want one. I’ve never needed one and I don’t need one now. It won’t even work, probably, because I’m so old. Even that doesn’t convince them, when my mum told them. But I wouldn’t _want it_ anyway, and they don’t understand why and I’m tired of explaining it.”

“Sorry,” Louis murmurs. He tips up to kiss Harry’s lips. “You don’t have to talk about it. I was just being nosy.” Louis pauses. “Although if it did work, could you hear?”

Harry’s nostrils flare. “ _If_ it worked, which it wouldn’t probably. Then yes. But I don’t need to hear. I don’t need fixing.”

 

**[STUFF. No idea.]**

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry. :(


End file.
